Lots of People Name Their Swords
by M. the Inspector
Summary: Two Hound fix-its for the end of Season 4. (You know your life sucks when death is considered a fix-it.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I cling to the Gravedigger Theory and pray that HBO is going to leap on it ASAP next year. But, in the meantime, I needed some sort of a fix-it.**

**Warning: This is not a very fixing fix-it! But it's better than nothing.**

* * *

It was a horrible noise. Low mindless distress, like a sick cow. The noise was sending chills up her spine, and whatever was making it was big, so she drew her sword when she stepped around the rock just to be safe.

It turned out not to be an animal at all, though. It was the Hound – still alive, somehow, half a day after she'd pushed him to his death.

He was stirring a little. Tossing his head side to side weakly.

She'd never seen a man this gruesomely injured _still alive._ After half a day.

The rocks crunched under her feet as she approached, and his eyes opened. He grunted what might be a question, and she came closer. "It's Brienne of Tarth," she said. "...Again." She wasn't sure what greeting was appropriate. Wishing him the seven blessings seemed a little absurd.

He spoke again, and this time the words were intelligible. "Thank the gods. Fuck." His face screwed up in pain as he shifted – trying to raise his head, it looked like. "Arya. She with you?"

Brienne swallowed. Something... was not right, here. Perhaps it was just pity, given the man's sorry state, but for a moment she thought he sounded... "No," she said. "I'm still looking."

"F-uck." Even his swear words had hitches in them. "I- told her to find you. Not to-... go it alone. She said-..." He bit his lip, rode out whatever pain had stopped him. "-Said she didn't need saving. Thinks she's so hard, that one. Silly bitch." He choked out a laugh. "Kills an enemy like- no one's business. But she-... didn't have it in her... to kill a friend."

...And, there it was. _A friend._ Not the kidnapper everyone said, the raper they suggested. He was her friend. _Mother have mercy._ No wonder Arya had hid behind him, and run away from the person who'd done... this.

"_You'll_ do it, though," he rasped with certainty. "It's only right. I'd do it for you." He coughed, gagged up a mouthful of blood. It ran down his face, and he hardly seemed to notice. "Did a sloppy job," he gasped. "You lazy cunt. Left a man half-killed. That's no way-... to end a fight. Fucking finish it." His face spasmed. He said: "Please."

She knelt down by him. Her throat was so thick she had to swallow again and again before she could force out a word. "Ser..."

His whole body jerked, drawing one of those awful noises again. "Stop it. Not a ser."

"You were-... you _were _watching over her."

He huffed. "Aye. Like I said."

She couldn't breathe. "What have I done," she whispered.

"A piss-poor job of killing, looks like." He showed teeth, not in a smile. "Make an end. It's bad."

His voice cracked there at the end. His suffering was awful and the fact that it was her fault was, for the moment, beside the point. She had to act. "Yes. Of course." His breath whooshed out, relief, and then hitched in what she knew to be a sob. She looked away; surely he would not want her to see him cry.

When she did, she saw Podrick, standing there useless as ever. With all their supplies. "Would you like some water?" she said.

"Aye. Wait – you have wine?"

She nodded. "Yes. Podrick," she called, and beckoned.

At that the Hound stirred and flung a hand out towards her. It fell on her boot and he squeezed. "I could kiss you."

"Please don't," she said, and opened it for him. Held the skin up and poured slowly, then let him have it faster when he started to gulp.

He drank an amount that amazed her, for a man in his condition – even arched his neck up towards the end, as if the liquor was giving him strength. When he was done he fell back, groaning. "Dear gods that's good. More mercy than... I'd ever hoped for, at the end." He licked his lips. "Go on: give me the blade now."

She almost couldn't bear to make him wait, but she had oaths to fulfill. "All right, but... I want to find Arya. Is there anything you can tell me about where she might have gone?"

His eyes had drifted closed and he was mumbling.

"_Clegane,_" she snapped at him.

His eyes didn't open. "Sandor," he said. "You bloody killed me, you can-... use my name."

"Sandor, then. I want to find Arya. Where do you think she's gone?"

"Fuck." He shifted. "More wine. Another sip and I'll-... tell you whatever you want to know."

She gave him as much as he could handle. Afterwards he went still and for a moment she feared he'd just _died._

"_Arya,_" she said sharply.

"Arya," he mumbled back. Drifting.

"Where is she? Where were you taking her?"

"Where," he muttered, lip curling. "Where not. We tried... to go to her mother. Mother died. We tried the aunt. Aunt died. Then she said... her brother at the Wall." He choked on laughter. "Didn't think we'd make it-... and if we did... he'd prob'ly be dead too." A smile played around his mouth.

He'd had care of her all this time. All this time Brienne had been hunting for Arya Stark, certain and terrified she'd find a lone corpse in a ditch somewhere, and all the time, this man had been conducting her across Westeros, back and forth, looking for a place to keep her safe.

And now she'd _killed _him – horribly – and Arya had fled alone.

But where? There was no time to torture herself now, not when the only information she had was slipping away before her eyes. "So then... Sandor? If not the Wall, where will she go now?"

It took him a few tries to make himself heard. "Braavos," he said. Thick and indistinct. "She... wanted to go to Braavos."

"And... you were taking her there?"

"Aye. Trying."

She felt sick. "Oh, gods..."

He opened his eyes and moved a little, arching up to look. "For fuck's sake," he gasped. "You women... All the same. Stop crying... and give me what you owe me."

"I'm not crying," she lied. She drew her dagger.

"Pfff," he scoffed. Drooled more blood. "Fuck that. Give me the good stuff." For a moment she didn't understand, until he rolled his eyes and slurred: "_Your sword._ Valyrian steel's the only way to go."

"Of course." She rose, drew Oathkeeper and held it up to the light. "I will find Arya and I will protect her," she said. "For the oath I swore her mother..." (..._And for Jamie, which you would not appreciate..._). "And for you."

He nodded. "Do it."

She pushed the blade through his heart cleanly and he died with just a sigh.

Afterwards she cleaned Oathkeeper before sheathing it. His blood wiped right off without a trace, but it didn't help.

* * *

The End.

**There. Man, you know your life sucks when death is considered a fix-it.**

**Let me know what you think! Over the last few weeks I've suddenly become an unstoppable Hound Fanfic Machine. I am totally going to get fired from my job if I don't stop writing and get back to work...**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: My other fix-it wasn't much of a fix-it, so I'm trying again. Still not much of a happy ending, but I feel like the Hound would like this better than a mercy killing at least?

* * *

"You're still here."

Arya didn't let her face change, but the words made her angry. He was _glad _to see her – he needed her. What a pathetic shit he was in the end. And how stupid was _she_, for putting her eggs in such a shit basket. "Are you going to die?" she asked rudely. He almost certainly was, but before she did anything else it was smarter to be sure. She didn't want to say something nasty and then have him get up and break her head for it.

He admitted that he was done and then waited. She waited too. What did he want, a _hug_? Maybe he shouldn't have been nasty about Syrio, then. Maybe he should have helped her rescue her mother at the Twins, instead of turning tail just to save his own miserable life.

But then his eyes widened. "Girl," he rasped, looking at something over her shoulder. "_Don't look._ That big bitch – she's back."

Arya felt fear – not fear though, Syrio had always had her think of it as _readiness_ – flow through her muscles. She tensed and got ready to jump up. "She's behind me? How far?"

He gave a tiny shake of his head. "Not far enough. She's hanging back – give you time to finish with me I guess? – but too close to run from. They'll catch you."

"Fucking hells. What do I do then?" She was an idiot to come back. Why had she come back? She'd just wanted to... something. Say goodbye maybe. He might be the worst traveling companion _ever _and she hated him, but he was all she had left.

The Hound showed his teeth. "Bring her here. I'll take care of her."

She almost laughed. "You? The fuck are _you _going to do? You're dead already, you said."

"No, not just yet. Not dead yet." But when he shifted he groaned in pain, shuddered. He was lying – she knew he wouldn't even be able to get up. His bone was sticking out of his leg. "Not dead yet," he insisted, huffing bloody drool. "If you can-... bring her close... I'll hold her for long enough."

"But she'll kill you." She swallowed. What a stupid thing to say!

But the Hound didn't make fun. "She already has," he said. Almost kindly - which made her want to kill him herself. How _dare _he try and make her soft, now when she needed to be strong most of all! "Bring her."

Arya didn't answer. Her throat was all thick; if she talked now he would think she was about to cry.

"Come _on_, girl," he growled at her. "The deal's done. My life for your escape. If you don't get away now I'll have died for nothing, and that's a shit thing to do to your only friend."

Finally she swallowed down the lump. "You're not my friend," she said. "I don't have any friends."

He chuckled – did he not believe her? – and gave what looked like a nod. "Good girl."

She was ready now. Ready to run – or fight. "Want me to stay? Maybe we can kill them together."

He shook his head. "Look at me. Not a chance in hell." He showed teeth again. "Now hurry up. I don't have forever."

"What do I do?"

"I'll lie still. You walk – don't run – to my-..." His eyes closed. "Ten o'clock. Go slow and don't look back. She'll walk right by here, she'll come too close, I'll grab hold."

She looted his corpse, the way he'd taught her. "Dead men don't need silver," she said, and took it. "They don't need weapons either, normally."

"I do. Put my knife in my hand. But there's a smaller one in my boot; you can take that."

She did. "Do you have anything else of value?" She felt herself smile at him – a mean smile. "Or was I really it?"

He snorted and shook his head. "Go."

* * *

Once the girl was gone it was quiet for a while. The wind, the bugs… the pain. It was hard to lie still and silent, but he did it, because the big bitch had killed him and damned if he'd go out without getting a little of his own back.

Eventually the stones crunched. Crunched louder. She was coming closer. If she had any brains she'd stick a sword through his heart just to make sure, but of course instead he heard her armor shifting and she was squatting down.

_Got her._ He rolled to his side and threw his arm around her ankle. Heaved himself at her with everything he had left.

The pain of moving was so bad it drove back the fog. He was conscious now, all the way conscious and fighting. "_Run_, girl! Now!" He dragged himself on top and tried to blind her.

The bitch got her arms up in time to force his knife away, and all he did was put a big gash down her cheek. Still he liked that. _Leave her as ugly as I am._

He wanted to get his thumbs in her eyes. With his gauntlets on, if he bore down hard enough he might be able to crush her skull. He badly wanted to see her head explode. Bitch deserved it.

But she was up protecting her face again, and the blood on her was making her slippery, and he didn't have it in him to wrestle her for a better position. He gave up on that and grabbed at her jaw instead, squeezing, covering her mouth. The jaw might break, sure, but more importantly she couldn't breathe this way. Suffocating her was the quickest way to sap her strength; she was in bad shape too; even after he died it would take her some time to get out from under his body.

He thought of how he'd lain trapped underneath a dead horse once, half dead himself, for two hours until someone found him. (Gregor had laughed about it. The bastard.)

He dragged himself up higher and turned so he was lying almost at right angles to her, sprawled across her chest and shoulders. He heard a noise of pain and guessed that some of her ribs were broken.

_So much the better. She'll be here a while._ He wriggled a little to fuck up the ribs worse.

Once he stopped struggling he started slipping away again. It was all right – the bitch was pretty well pinned; by the time she got up the Stark girl would have had plenty of time to get away.

He did notice – and hate – that in the end it wasn't skill or strength or grit that had carried the day; what was doing the job was just his dead meat, the weight of his armor and his bulk, everything he shared with Gregor.

_Aye but Gregor wouldn't be such a bloody idiot as to die for a little girl, would he._

No, he wouldn't. _But I would._

That thought was some satisfaction at least, so he held onto it until his thoughts dissolved into blackness.

* * *

The End.

There – a somewhat better fix-it.

But I continue to hope, hope, HOPE that fix-it isn't really necessary because the show is going to do what we're hoping it's doing…


End file.
